AMERICAN GHOST STORY.
BY MR. PAULDING.
probably James Kirke Paulding (1778-1860)
(From the New York Mirror.)
Who is she that standeth at the open window, shaded by the
spreading branches of the old tree, which hath long since disappeared
from the hallowed spot, modestly taking the morning air at home
instead of gadding up and down the streets, the sight of her warms my
heart, and recalls the memory of youthful hopes and disappointments.
Beautiful little Marian, thou at least deservest a biography,
and thou shalt have it before I go to sleep. I am determined to rescue
thee from oblivion, let what will be the consequence. If half a
hundred dandies die of love of thy beauty, and half a thousand
belles of envy, I cannot help it. Thy memory shall not perish,
beautiful damsel!
Marian was the only child of a most respectable widow lady who
inhabited the identical house where the artist has represented her as
standing at the window in the prime of womanhood. She was destined
to be a great fortune; and of the crowd of cocked hats exhibited
by the artist, in the street and on the pavement, not one came there
but with a view of casting a sheep's eye at the charming little
Marian. I will not deny that I myself was predisposed to mount my
steed and curvet before her, as may be seen in the picture, with a
view to exciting her approbation of my horsemanship.
The household of the old lady was composed of three or four ebony
domestics, such as the cook, a female, the coachman, the chambermaid,
and the lady's own man, as gray as a badger and as black as
anthracite coal. They were all old; for it seems to me there were
no young servants in those days, except the humble servants of the
ladies. There was a distant kinsman of the old lady who resided
with her, said grace at dinner, cut up the tough geese, and made
himself useful in all the multifarious ways that the ingenuity of
patronage devises to enable such persons to repay their obligations.
He was known by the name of Herman; and his character partook
largely of that trickery and cunning, interested hypocrisy, which is so
often engendered by a life of dependence. He had long cherished
a secret yet vehement desire to wed the beautiful Marian, and
appropriate her fortune to himself, and for this purpose used every art
of subserviency to make himself, by slow, inexpressible degrees, an
interest in her heart without alarming either herself or her mother.
But the young lady suspected not his attachment to her, or rather
to her fortune; for indeed, she felt no interest in him sufficient to make
her either watchful or clear-sighted as to his sentiments or actions.
The good lady-mother still less had an idea of his plans; for, in the
first place, she considered him entirely out of the question, and, in the
second, she was gradually becoming a strict devotee, as is often the
case with elderly ladies is want of excitement. Of late she had
become very superstitious; and there was not a dream, a ghost story, or
a supernatural visitation that she did not believe as true as the
gospel. But, notwithstanding all this, she would have pounced at the
very idea of marrying her daughter to a thing less than a little great
man, and of this Herman was perfectly aware. All that he could do,
therefore, was to assail the young lady by silent attentions and grateful
assiduity, waiting patiently till the chapter of accidents might
pave the way to the success of his wishes. But the prospect of this
became every day apparently more distant. Marian was surrounded
by admirers, and now a new one entered the lists, who seemed
destined to prevail over all his rivals. His name was Arthur
Whittingham, and my readers will know more of him anon. It is sufficient
for my purpose to say, that he gained a deep interest in the heart of
Marian, and that he merited such a distinction. Herman watched
the progress of this attachment with a degree of ravenous jealousy,
which every day became the more virulent from the necessity of
repressing it in his own bosom. He dared not enter the lists with his
rival; he dared not exhibit his feelings, and they preyed upon him
like so many concealed vultures. He thought of nothing but how
to thwart this growing attachment, and his solitary hours by day
and by night were spent in devising plans which reason told him it
was impossible to execute.
Matters were in this state when the spirit of improvement, which
at that time began to awaken in our city, prompted the old lady to
change the location of the kitchen, which tradition said had originally
been in the cellar, under the west end of the house, and had
many years before removed to the east. An ambitious neighbour had
built a five-story house adjoining that end of the old lady's
mansion, which, overtopping her chimney, caused it to smoke in such
wise that the black cook was afraid it would spoil her complexion,
and never rested until she persuaded her mistress to remove the
kitchen to the old place it had occupied before the revolutionary
war.
This was accordingly done, to the great content of aunt Dinah, who
excelled in peper-pots; but she might better have staid where she
was at the other end of the house. She had scarcely lighted the fire
in her new dominion when there commenced a rattling of chains, and
an infernal roaring in the premises, that sent aunt Dinah out of the
kitchen ten times faster than she came in. She ran to her mistress,
and told her the old boy, or something worse, was in the kitchen.
By this time Prince and coffee and the whole household had evacuated
the lower region, and ran together to tell their mistress what
was going on, each in his own way, and all talking together.
The good old lady was frightened almost out of her wits, and
calling Herman, proceeded, at the head of the household troops, to
investigate the mysterious affair. The rattling of chains, and the roaring
noises still continued, and seemed to increase in violence, to the
utter consternation of all parties. The old lady retreated into her
strong hold, took down the Bible, and, putting on her spectacles,
began reading the story of Saul and the witch of Endor. Old Dinah
declared she would not cook at such a diabolical fire, and, Coffee
and the black prince swore they would not eat the dinner if she did.
Herman proceeded to examine the premises, for the purpose of
ascertaining the cause of this incomprehensible uproar, but without
success. It continued during the whole day, until the fire went out
in the evening, and was heard no more that night.
The next day Dinah emigrated back to the kitchen in the east
wing, but the smoke was so intolerable that she declared the roaring
noises and rattling chains were more tolerable, and again retreated
to the diabolical region. The moment the fire began to burn the
noises commenced, and again the whole household was thrown into
confusion and consternation. But aunt Dinah had seen a good many
witches in her day, and had once put a whole bevy of them to flight
with a red-hot poker. She was, therefore, not so easily frightened
as some inexperienced people, and always kept the poker heated for
any emergency, determined rather to stand her ground than go back
to her old quarters and be smoked to death. I ought to mention that
recourse was had to an experienced chimney-doctor, who tried his
hand at remedying the matter, but, like many other doctors, he only
made bad worse.
In the mean time the report got abroad, and the whole neighbourhood
first, and the whole city by degrees rang with the story of the
haunted house. It was said that it had been used during the occupancy
of the town by the British as a place of confinement for
prisoners, and that a mysterious man, with an iron-bound physiognomy,
had been kept there in chains and finally disappeared in an
unaccountable manner. People began to hear groans in the middle of the
night, and glimmering lights were sometimes seen by the watchman,
whose duty it was to guard the precincts of the city-hall from nightly
intruders. The venerable Skaats was also frequently disturbed
by dreams and nightmares that he sometimes waked
panting for
breath. Finally, the whole affair got into the newspapers, and the
whole country talked of nothing else. It should be borne in mind,
that people had neither railroads, internal improvements, tariffs, nor
nullifications to stultify them at that period, and were, therefore,
right glad of something to talk about.
The old lady became ten times more devout than ever, and was
often closeted with a mysterious person skilled in the "gramary" of
the famous pow-wowings at old Hadley. who had been recommended
to her by Herman as a most skilful exorciser of evil spirits and layer
of ghosts. This cunning varlet by degrees insinuated himself into her
confidence, insomuch that it was not long before he got the entire
direction of the old lady's conscience, and could almost persuade her
to anything. He and Herman occasionally watched at night in the
kitchen, where every day the same rattling of chains and accompanying
noises were heard, from the time of lighting the fire in the
morning to its going out at night, when all became quiet. The old
lady would question the crafty varlet as to the causes of these untoward
disturbances, but he only shook his head in a significant manner,
and answered vaguely, on purpose to excite her curiosity. At
length, one day she insisted on his being more explicit, when, as if
with great tribulation and reluctance, he told her that he had twice
seen the ghost of her deceased husband appear immediately after the
rattling of chains had ceased, and advance towards him as if to say
something, but at each time the voice of a watchman "Past twelve
o'clock, and all's well," had stopped his mouth, and caused him to
vanish up the chimney, whence the rattling of chains seemed to
come.
The good old lady was so frightened at this relation that she made
little Marian sleep in the room with her from that time, justly
concluding that no ghost, however mischievously inclined, would find it
in his heart to injure such an innocent little darling. She also
enjoined upon the pow-wowing varlet to watch the next night to see if
the ghost would make his appearance again, and speak to him, at the
time exacting a solemn promise that he would repeat to her every
word he said, without addition or diminution. Accordingly, the
next day he asked a private audience of the old lady, and, locking
the door inside, communicated the following intelligence, every word
of which she most potently believed.
"About twelve o'clock," said he, "when the rattling of the
chains and the roaring sounds had ceased, and all was silent as a
churchyard, I hear three taps against the chimney-back, followed
by three hollow groans and three loud sneezes."
"My poor dear husband always sneezed three times in succession,"
thought the good lady.
"I sat still and said nothing, but kept my eye steadily on the spot
whence the groans proceeded, when all at once a figure seemed to
come out of the wall, with a long Meershaum pipe in his mouth,
dressed in a cocked hat, a sky blue birds eye silk coat, and gold
laced waistcoat, and breeches of the same colour, a long queue, and
powdered curls."
Here the old lady screamed, "the very dress my poor dear husband
always wore! Did you ever see my husband when alive;"
"No."
"Wonderful!" exclaimed she again, forgetting that he might see
his picture, dressed exactly as he described, hanging up in the hall
every day.
"Well, and what did he say?"
"Why, luckily the watchman happened to be asleep this time,
and omitted to call out 'Past twelve o'clock.' The figure advanced
slowly upon me, with a gold snuff-box in his left hand, out of which
he ever and anon took a pinch, and then sneezed three times."
"Just like my poor dear husband," sighed the disconsolate
widow.
"Well, when he came within two paces, he cried out in a low,
solemn, sepulchral voice, 'Hem!' I answered him in a voice equally
solemn and sepulchral. 'Hem!'"
"'Listen!' said the voice.
"'Say on,' replied I.
"'My dearly beloved wife, who could never rest content without
getting at every body's secrets —'
"'Tis a scandalous insinuation," cried the old lady, in a pet;
"but it is just like my foolish husband —"
"'My dearly beloved wife,' said the ghost.
"Well, well, you needn't repeat that over again."
"'My dearly beloved wife would know the occasion of these
mysterious voices — listen! Know that on the birth of Herman and
of my daughter Marian, which happened on the same day, I entered
into a solemn agreement with his father, who was the a wealthy
merchant, that, if they both lived to the age of twenty-one, they
should be joined in lawful wedlock. I cannot rest in my grave till
this promise is complied with, nor will these noises ever cease till
then. Report this to my dearly beloved wife, and tell her, as she
values the repose of my body and my soul, to fulfil my engagement
without delay. I know she is an obstinate sort of an old lady, but it
shall go hard but I worry her at last, or my name is not —'"
"Will he?" quoth the widow to herself? "I'm not quite so sure
of that." She was not a little nettled at these posthumous reflections
of her spouse.
"Here," continued the pow-wower, "the poor ghost was interrupted
by the voice of the watchman, who had just waked up, and,
seeing the windows reddening with the rising sun; began to cry
'Fire, fire!' with all his might. Farewell, quoth he; 'I hear the
milkman's summons, the morning salutation of the early chimney-sweeper,
the rattling of the carman's cart, and the noise of opening
doors. Farewell! — the grave is open to receive me. Let not the
day pass without communicating this to my dear wife.' Saying this,
he deliberately took another pinch of snuff, sneezed three times,
and disappeared. You now know all, madam, and must act according
to your best discretion." So saying, he unlocked the door, and
left the widow to her reflections.
These were by no means enviable. She was not a little affronted
at the irreverent manner in which the ghost had spoken of her, and
the thought of marrying her rich, beautiful daughter to such a poor
sinner as Herman, was gall, wormwood, and aloes. But then the
commands of her dead husband, the repose of his body and soul, and
the horrible noises which beset her and her daughter from morning
till night, furnished a counterpoise to all her objections. After a
hard struggle, she determined to comply with the injunctions of the
ghost.
When this was communicated to Marian, she turned pale, and
wept her unwillingness to offer herself up as a sacrifice to the repose
of her deceased parent's remains. The existence of these mysterious
and appalling sounds she could not doubt, for she had often
heard them; but the appearance of the ghost she did not entirely
believe. She communicated the whole to Whittingham, who scouted
the story of the pow-wower, and attempted to persuade her either
to consent to a private marriage or refuse to wed with Herman. But
the poor girl was infected with superstitious fears, and her nerves
weakened by the perpetual recurrence of these appalling sounds.
By degrees, her opposition became weaker, as the thought of her
being possibly accessary to the disturbance of that repose which belongs
to the grave gradually possessed her mind.
"I must make the sacrifice," said she, one evening, as she and
Whittingham were strolling arm in arm on the battery.
"The sacrifice of two living souls on the altar of superstition,"
cried he. "Oh, Marian, can you be so weak as to believe this wild
tale?"
"Have I not heard the mysterious noises?"
"Yes, and so have I. I cannot deny but that there is something
apparently supernatural, or, at least, unaccountable in them. But
the tale of the ghost deserves only to be laughed
at."
"Not by me. Every thing connected with the memory of my
dear father is sacred. I cannot live under the impression of his
wandering about after death, and wanting the repose of a quiet
grave, and all through my fault."
"And you will destroy the peace of us both?"
"I will: it is the command of my loving mother, and, perhaps, of
my dead father."
"Then you will never see me more," said Whittingham; and they
returned to the haunted house without another word. As they opened
the door, they heard the rattling of chains and the roaring sounds.
Marian shuddered, and even Whittingham felt his nerves somewhat
shaken.
"Hark!" cried she, "don't yon hear the warning?"
"It is the death-knell of my hopes," replied the youth. A pressure
of the hand and a last kiss, and they saw each other no more!
It was not long before Marian was worried into a slow, unwilling
consent to wed with Herman. It was expected that the marriage
would be followed by the repose of the ghost, and the discontinuance
of the appalling sounds; but, to the astonishment of all, and the
despair of poor Marian, they continued as they did before.
"I have sacrificed myself and poor Whittingham in vain," said
she, a hundred times a day, as the neglect and ill humour of Herman
deprived her of the last consolation of a wife, that of believing
herself beloved by her husband. Herman, who, as the reader probably
suspects, had concerted with the pow-wower the story of the ghost,
quarrelled with him when they came to divide the spoils of the plot,
and the consequence was a full exposure. But the noises still continued
as great a mystery of Herman as to the rest of the world; and,
on the death of the old lady, he removed into a distant part of the
city. Poor Marian continued to say to herself, "I have sacrificed
myself and him I love in vain." And when, at length, she learned
the plot of which she had been the dupe, she pined away and died
of a broken heart. I never knew what became of Whittingham.
The old house remained untenanted for many years, during which
the mysterious rattling of chains and roaring noises entirely ceased.
The whole story was forgotten, until, on pulling down the building,
it was found that, by accident, or from some cause or other, a smoke
jack had been masoned up in the wall, during the period the family
had abandoned it in consequence of the city being in possession of the
enemy, when as I before observed, it was occupied as a prison or
guard house. This discovery explained the whole mystery of the
periodical rattling of the chains and the roaring noises; but alas!
it could not restore the happiness of poor Marian, or wake the dead
from their graves!
